


The Strain: Another Season Episode 1 - Night Hero

by RosieBrookMeade



Series: The Strain: Another Season [1]
Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieBrookMeade/pseuds/RosieBrookMeade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Eph’s public service broadcast in 1.12, FinchTV is New York's only remaining channel. The CEO appeals to find Well Dressed Man – Eichhorst, portrayed as a kind of folk hero having fought off two gang attacks (Gus and friends) and a crazy old man with a sword on the subway. What the hell is going on? Follows straight on from the end of the first season.<br/>I am writing exclusive new Vaun scenes and new Quinlan scenes aiming to ensure every chapter has at least one Born appearance. This has only been uprated because I’m incapable of writing Gus without swearing.<br/>No sex.<br/>Not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Well Dressed Man

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t like the other fics that have gone down well over here. It is supposed to read like watching a TV show. Each episode is divided into chapters which are meant to represent the commercial breaks. A complete line indicates a scene break. It is written in the present tense cos that’s how I feel when I watch TV. I used the third person and a point of view of a neutral observer for the same reason. This lends a certain detachment which doesn’t allow for in-depth examination of emotions and motivations. I’ve stuck to dialogue and brief descriptions of what the actions would look like if you viewed it on screen. I think in 40 chapters I’ve touched on what might be going through characters heads or in the wider context a total of three times, including the very first scene. At those times, I imagine a kind of narrator’s voiceover. Maybe this time around, I'll actually write it as the Narrator’s lines. Let’s see how it goes… 
> 
> Eichhorst is still staying in Stoneheart in my fic. I am convinced that the feeding dungeon in 2.11 is different to the one in 1.06 and likewise the makeup station in 2.08 is somewhere other than the one in 1.03. The first season room is sleeker and more modern with different walls and ceilings, the corridor outside the feeding room has older, tattier décor in 2.11 and the room itself has no drain. I have therefore assumed that Eichhorst moved out following the breakdown in his relationship with Eldritch Palmer. The dynamic is certainly altered in Another Season but not irrevocably destroyed, allowing him to remain.
> 
> Finally, I appear to have inadvertently given Eichhorst a double promotion. I watched young Setrakian call him “Herr Standartenführer” (and have more than quadruple-checked that line) so didn’t bother to check if his collar pips corroborated that assumption. I'm sorry about the inconsistency. In my defence, he has been a colonel for nearly a year on FF and nobody flagged it up. So now I have two choices on AO3. I am personally inclined to let it stand and write some scenes explaining why he’s wearing the wrong uniform. The other option is that the defiant, self-possessed young Abraham was obsequiously sucking up to him, which seems out of character to me.

Night Hero  
Chapter One  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  
Stoneheart Building, Manhattan – The morning after the “Battle of Bolivar’s”, Present Day

The living area of Eichhorst's apartment is decorated to the same five star standard as his dressing room. An enormous television screen showing the news dominates the wall Eichhorst is facing. He is suited and appears human. He is getting a manicure from a handsome young man in a faceguard wielding something like a miniature angle grinder.

An unseen narrator intones: _The last few days in the New World have not been kind to former Standartenführer Thomas Eichhorst._

_He has been called "bitch", "arsehole", "man-whore" and a "horrible monster"._

_He has been punched in the guts, shot in the leg, arms and in his beautiful face._

Eichhorst scowls into a mirror as he touches the still healing wounds on his cheek.

_He has been threatened with death and dismemberment and thwarted at every turn by an old pawnbroker and his bickering band of outcasts._

_His Master has been humiliated and badly burned at their hands and, at least in part, blames Eichhorst who is being supplanted in his trust and esteem by two of his latest creations._

_Yet, Eichhorst has the kind of self-belief that empires are built on. And it is unshaken… his urbane façade in place._

_More or less._

_Eichhorst's pride propels him onwards – he knows he will heal. He will regain his Master's faith and ultimately they will triumph._

_But for now, things are about to get strange. For everyone..._

A pretty Korean girl behind a FinchTV logo-ed desk on the television announces, 'The body of unpopular New York Mayor J Robert Gomez, who was reported missing yesterday, has been found in 'The Peppermint Hippo' Gentlemen's Club. FinchTV understands that he apparently died of injuries sustained during a bondage sex game. It is unclear, at present, who will take over at City Hall because of the recent disappearance of Deputy Mayor Leone and the Chief of Staff Debbie Burton. We will give you further details as they become available.'

The manicure continues with the whirr of the motor occluding most of the audio of the rest of the newscast. On the screen is a coiffed Latino woman being interviewed. The caption reads: Cristina Maria Gomez - widow of late Mayor J. Robert Gomez.

Occasional segments of the audio can be heard:

Mrs Gomez says, 'Finally, I can drop the pretence that we're…we were happy.'

And later, phrases from back in the newsroom are audible, interspersed with sporadic _zzzzzjshhhh_ ’s from the manicurist’s equipment.

'record low for a mayoral approval rating'

… _jjzzhhzz_ …

'dogged by controversy and allegations of incomp…'

… _zzzhhhzzjhhhhhh_ …

'...ruption'

… _zzzzzzzshhzz_ …

'Other news'

… _zzzjh_ …

'school closures'

… _zzzzzzszzzzshsshhh_ …

'power outages'

… _zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzjsshzzzzz_ …

'spoke to Governor L…'

… _jjjzzzzh_.

The manicure concludes and the end of the newscast is clearly audible.

The newscaster says, 'And finally, our CEO personally requested we put out a bulletin asking this well-groomed man to come forward for an interview feature we want to commission.'

A still image of Eichhorst leaving Stoneheart to attack the pawnshop fills the screen. The other, naked vampires are not visible.

The newscaster continues, 'He has been pictured fighting off a sword attack from a crazy old man...'

On the television, there's some video of Eichhorst evading Setrakian's sword swing at Grand Central Station. The quality is much better than you would usually expect from CCTV, although the image of Setrakian's face is blurred and there is no audio to this or either of the following clips.

The newscast continues, '...dispersing a group of youths causing a disturbance behind The Yummy Dragon Chinese restaurant in Harlem.'

The next video is of Eichhorst approaching Gus Elizalde and chums in an alleyway to tell him to retrieve the Master's coffin from the airport. Gus' face is blurred, but everyone else is seen clearly.

'…and even repelling an attack by two young gunmen…'

Finally, some video of Eichhorst beneath Stoneheart is shown. He is punched by Gus (who is blurry again) and he disarms Felix (whose image is clearly shown).

The report concludes, 'With all this craziness in New York we really need a hero and, of course,' the newscaster says archly, 'there is an opening in City Hall. So, if anyone out there knows, or has seen Well Dressed Man…'

Eichhorst's image again fills the screen with “WANTED The Well Dressed Man” underneath together with a solitary landline number “1-800-WELL-DRESSED” rather than the usual text and mobile numbers and email, Facebook and Twitter addresses.

'…Or if the man himself isn't too shy to come forward, please give us a call on the number shown on the screen.'

Eichhorst just stares at the television for several seconds. It's impossible to tell if he's concerned about exposure or if his vanity has been massaged by the publicity.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fet's Place, Richards Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Here are Setrakian and the "warriors" that have been such a hindrance to Eichhorst and his cause.

In the apartment above Vasiliy Fet's workshop, Abraham Setrakian is examining his face in the bathroom mirror – his skin is grey and the sclerae of his eyes are a sickly yellow colour.

The discredited medics, Dr Ephraim Goodweather and Dr Nora Martinez, sit with their backs to each other, either end of a couch. He is necking some Scotch and she is hugging her knees, weeping.

The little boy, Zack Goodweather, is upstairs in a sleeping bag staring unseeing at the ceiling.

The grungy anarchist Eichhorst himself helped to hire, Dutch Velders, is trying to get a connection from a laptop. She swears, fetches the computer a sideswipe and switches the television on.

The rat catcher, Vasiliy Fet, hands Dutch a mug, obviously full of steaming brown liquid.

And then they see the Well Dressed Man appeal. The train platform scene is a particular hit.

The initial response is slack-jawed although the man himself, Setrakian, misses his big scene.

Simultaneously, Nora breathes, 'Oh my God!' and Dutch exclaims, 'What the fu…'

Fet yells over her, 'Hey Pops! You're gonna want to see this!'

He orders Dutch, 'Rewind. Rewind! That's it - right to the top of that whole 'Well Dressed Man' crap.'

Once again, the newscaster says, '…our CEO personally requested we put out a bulletin asking this well-groomed man to come forward…'

Fet says, 'Pause it there.'

He points to the FinchTV logo. 'Who the hell is this Finch guy?'

Eph says, 'I bet you all the Scotch in the city it's Palmer.'

Setrakian arrives fresh from the bathroom, come to see what all Fet's hollering is about.

Eph is still muttering about 'Eldritch freaking Palmer'.

Fet snatches the remote from an annoyed Dutch and presses play. 'Watch!'

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Ancients' facility

In front of a television screen in a smaller, slightly cosier room than his prison cell, Gus stands beside Vaun watching FinchTV's VT of his confrontation with Eichhorst in the sewers. He is aghast.  
  
'How in the _HELL_ did they film that?'  
  
Vaun’s unfathomable black eyes slide slowly sideways and slightly down.

‘How indeed?’ he says deliberately.


	2. Vaun (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaun makes Gus uncomfortable with a surprise request. Eichhorst does the same to his manicurist just by sitting quietly in his chair. A suspiciously overdressed blonde in a darkened room examines the Well Dressed Man tape and recalls her gap year. And a section of the NYPD begin to fight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind “get well” wishes. I’m sorry I’ve been away so long. It turns out I was worrying too much about spoilers, we’re only a fortnight behind the US with season 3.  
> I’m going to try and post a screenshot of my FFN hits for Night Hero Part One (this included the teaser trailer and first four chapters) because it’s important to me that you don’t think I have been lying about my claims of hundreds of readers - given that 5 girls and a cat that wandered onto a keyboard have viewed my stories on here! I hope it works, I’m such a Luddite it took me 2 nights of googling even to find out how to take a screenshot!  
> Talking of which, how does the tagging system work? All I've managed to add are the pre-selected characters and that doesn't cover every CC who's going to show up in Another Season. I don't even know how to classify this fic as no-one else has been so stupid as to tackle an entire freaking season of an ensemble show in their first fic. And can anyone tell me if you can reply to anonymous reviews here? I’m so grateful for feedback that I want to thank everyone personally.  
> I have no clue how to post that screenshot here so I'll try it as cover art for Night Hero Part 1 on FanFiction if you want to see proof. Sorry I'm such an old fart.
> 
> For over a year, I have got completely the wrong idea of fan fics. This means that my format doesn’t lend itself to love stories as that wasn’t my original intent. And now that I read some of the incredibly beautiful romances (and fabulously dark, steamy ones too) written on here, I don’t think I even want to try. My main OC, Sandra Edwards, was not intended to be a love interest for her CC, only an interest. I think I could have developed that relationship but I was never prompted on FF and it wasn’t my agenda so I left it alone with only a bit of a twist necessitated by 2.11 Dead End.  
> I think she is also nothing like the OFCs that have been well-received on AO3. That’s OK - feel free to hate her so long as you love to hate her. In fact, if you don’t want to choke the living shit out of young Sandra at least once then I’ll kind of judge you! ;)  
> I know she’s beautiful but she’s not meant to be an everywoman. She’s not meant to be you, the reader, and she’s especially not meant to be my avatar. She’s as much the opposite of me as was possible for another British woman. She has to be a woman for the story and she has to be a Brit cos I know I write with a thick accent and have a great deal of difficulty writing believable American dialogue. She is meant to be “watched”, not empathised with.  
> N.B. Many of my original characters are not truly original but minor canon characters given names and/or back-stories.

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 1

Night Hero  
Chapter Two

* * *

 

The Ancients’ facility

Gus has stopped fighting Vaun and stands thoughtfully beside him, watching FinchTV's VT of his confrontation with Eichhorst in the sewers. He is aghast.

'How in the HELL did they film that?'

Vaun’s unfathomable black eyes slide slowly across and slightly down. 

‘How indeed?’ he says deliberately. 

Gus rewinds and plays the segment again. Absorbed in the action, which has been carefully edited to show Eichhorst as the heroic, outnumbered defender, he doesn’t notice Vaun’s head gradually turning his way, followed eventually by his body.

Vaun stares at him as he points at the paused action. ‘Look at this, man,’ he says indignantly. ‘My buddy Felix, here. You can see his face. They made us look like the bad guys. Poor Felix. Ain’t right, man. None of this is right.’

Gus pauses to think and then says, ‘Hang on…’He rewinds to the scene with Eichhorst encountering a blurry-faced Setrakian on the subway platform. ‘Yeah, I think I know this old dude too, man,’ he says, looking back at Vaun and starting slightly to find him staring so intently. ‘I seen that fancy cane he carrying. Never knew it hid a sword, though. Crazy old bastard. He a pawnbroker from Harlem - near where I live.’

His face falls as he remembers how he left the apartment. ‘Where I _used_ to live anyway.’

Vaun has turned back to the screen. He’s nowhere near as surprised as Gus to find an elderly gentleman brandishing a sword at a vampire.

‘This has all been planned from the very beginning, Mr Elizalde,’ he says, his voice trailing off into a whisper. ‘But I thought I knew who all of the players were…’

He snaps out of his reverie and without warning he leans in to Gus, scenting the Mexican and making him back off, scared.

‘Whoa, get away from me, man. You said you weren’t gonna eat me.’

‘What products do you use?’

‘What the f*ck, man,’ Gus says, getting angry enough to provoke stinger rattling among Vaun’s Hunter squad in the background. ‘What d’ya mean “products”?’

‘I want you to take a shower, Mr Elizalde.’

‘Now, you listen to me, freak. I don’t care what you get up to with your little fuck buddies here but I’ve been inside and I shower ALONE,’ he pauses before adding for accuracy and further hetero emphasis, ‘or with girls. And I mean live ones – human girls, you hear me.’

He’s puffed up now and pointing around at the Hunters in nervous cockiness.

Vaun watches him, puzzled and not even slightly threatened.

‘You want me to bring you women? It has been a long time since I fought alongside a mortal but I believe you need to demonstrate your value as a Sun Hunter before you earn rewards. It is difficult enough to alter our operation to accommodate human food and hygiene demands but perhaps if you prove efficient and tractable…’

Gus’ machismo deflates a little. ‘You’re not gonna…you know…try ‘n…y’know…’ he peters out, unwilling to seed any ideas and, besides Vaun seems to be still completely at a loss regarding his meaning.

‘You are going to examine the site of your recorded subterranean encounter with the German,’ explains Vaun patiently. ‘And I need your aroma to be exactly as it was that morning, for _he_ will certainly want to investigate the scene himself and he must not scent any anomalous presence.’

‘Uh?’

‘The sewer needs to smell of you but not me,’ Vaun translates with a sigh.

Gus relaxes. He punches Vaun on the arm with a laugh of forced camaraderie. ‘No cinnamon, right man?’

‘Cinnamon?’ Vaun is really perplexed by this turn of the conversation.

‘Yeah, man,’ says Gus. ‘You smell like Starbucks at breakfast time.’

‘I shall ignore that piece of nonsense as an example of your human idiosyncrasy,’ Vaun announces haughtily. He really does seem naïvely confused but his comment as he accompanies the Mexican out belies this impression.

‘There’s no need to worry, Mr Elizalde,’ he says, clapping Gus fraternally on the shoulder. ‘I like girls too.’

Gus is left slack-jawed as Vaun leads the way, a tiny, knowing smile on his face.

* * *

 

Eichhorst's Stoneheart Apartment

The young Adonis kneeling at Eichhorst's feet finishes his work and removes the face protector. Now the noise has stopped he can hear the television and twists around on his haunches to look. He watches the Well Dressed Man appeal for a second or two and, pointedly not looking at his client, begins packing away his equipment.

The silence is painful and there is no movement from Eichhorst. Finally, the poor man is unable to resist a glance any longer. He raises his eyes for a moment and they meet Eichhorst's looking down. The manicurist stands up and the unblinking gaze follows him as he straightens and walks quickly to the door. His shoulders relax as he turns the handle but it's too soon.

'Wait,' says Eichhorst.

* * *

 

Boerum Hill, Brooklyn Present Day

A red-haired Irish American is at home trying to persuade his African American wife and adorable mixed race children to pack and leave.

The man says, 'Come on Loretta, honey, I can't do this unless I know that you and the kids are safe in Jersey.'

Loretta replies, 'What I can't figure is why you gotta do this at  _all_.'Then she pleads, 'Why won't you come to Alisha's with us?'

Her husband is determined, 'I want to take back my city from the thugs and looters.'He starts to enthuse, 'No badges, no copcams, no Internal Affairs just guilt-free punk bashing. The whole precinct is doing the same.'

Loretta begins to get suspicious. 'Mmm-hmm – does that include Lena Bartoli?'

The man tries to be nonchalant. 'Well, yes I think the Captain said she would be leading us…'

Loretta is suddenly lit up. 'He-y-ell No! You're just jealous of this Bruce Wayne character aren't you? 'She indicates the image of Eichhorst the Well Dressed Man currently being shown on FinchTV and continues, 'Stephen James Collins. You are too old for this shit! And good luck fighting evil without your gun.'

She grabs Steve's sidearm and storms out to pack it.

5-year-old Michael runs towards her asking 'Is Daddy going to be Judge Dredd or Batman?'

'Neither baby. Daddy's coming to Auntie Alisha's with us,' replies Loretta.

Steve turns away and whispers, 'Nope. Daddy's gonna be Jim Gordon.'

Unfortunately for him 8-year-old Katie is just coming in and overhears.

'MOM! Guess what Dad just said….'

* * *

 

Midtown Manhattan - Present

In a skyscraper, the roof and sides of which are bristling with communications masts, satellite dishes, solar panels and wind turbines, there is a windowless, well-appointed office with a bank of TV screens showing various news channels around the world.

A stunning blonde woman sits there wearing a beautifully tailored trouser suit with polo neck and high heels. She looks almost exactly like Charlize Theron. Her hair is in a smart up-do but not too much time has been spent on it. She is wearing white gloves like the Queen. Perhaps she is fastidious about tidiness and hygiene because her desk is immaculate. There's a silver-coloured metal locket around her throat resting on the polo neck. The locket is a flattened oval shape and about the size of a man's thumb print.

She is rewinding, fast-forwarding, pausing and generally scrutinising the footage of Well Dressed Man and especially the people fighting him. She's alone. There's a digital photo frame on her desk currently showing a smiling blonde girl who looks about five years old.

Her tablet chirps – the text of the email is not seen but she smiles and dashes off a reply.

Now the photo frame is showing a family group – no one looks like our blonde. There's an elderly lady, a man in his sixties, a middle aged woman and two young men in their twenties or early thirties – the older one looks exactly like Tom Hiddleston, the younger more like a blond Ben Whishaw. They are all blond or white-haired and all good-looking and smiling. In front of the older man there is a cake with candles showing the number "70". The woman's eye is caught by this shot and she picks up the frame and taps the side to hold the current image. Close up, a date stamp of "25.08.89" is visible. And, along with the blond, there are piercing blue eyes all round. The woman smiles wistfully as she gazes at the picture and absently rolls the locket around in her gloved fingers.

She remembers...

* * *

 

Hoek van Holland 1989

A huge car ferry is in the background as a much younger version of the suited lady is wearing jeans, DMs, backpack and a ponytail. She disembarks, shoving a dog-eared copy of _The Vampire Lestat_ into her bag before looking for someone to pick her up. It is a blazingly sunny day.

The Tom Hiddleston lookalike from the photograph is similarly attired and holding a board saying 'Sandra Edwards'. He smiles as he spots the young woman. He approaches and it is obviously a first but cordial meeting.

They giggle a bit and get their greetings mixed up. Sandra has a cut glass English accent. Her new friend has a slight Dutch accent.

Eventually the young man is the first to regain composure and he extends a hand. 'Hi. I'm Cornelius Henke – Corey if you can't stifle a laugh otherwise…'

Sandra smiles as she shakes it, 'Sandra Edwards - as you know,' indicating his placard.

They're a bit shy and awkward with each other.

Corey asks, 'Did you have a good crossing?'

'Yes, thank you – great weather, really calm seas. Thanks for coming all this way to pick me up, by the way. I could easily have got the train to Maastricht.'

'It's my pleasure. You'd rather sail, or train, than fly then, I take it.'

'Yes – much rather. I do fly - I mean you can't get the ferry to places like Australia…but I'd prefer to avoid all that airport stress and waiting and baggage restrictions and stuff, if I can.'

Corey says, 'You must be looking forward to the Tunnel opening, then?'

Sandra replies enthusiastically, 'Oh absolutely! Can you imagine it – lunch in London and dinner in Paris? My ex is a vet and he's totally against it - says it's going to let rabies and all kinds of nasty diseases into the country…'

Corey grins, 'And, let me guess, you like the idea of it all the more because he hates it?'

Sandra grins up at him, 'Yes – something like that.'

'Thanks for speaking English. I speak a little Dutch and German but nothing like as well as you.' she adds.

'Don't mention it. Can I take your luggage?'

Sandra hands it over with a gracious post-feminist "Thank you" rather than the usual "I can manage" used to indicate that the character is a strong, indepedent woman.

They walk side by side in silence for a while.

'You're a lot younger than I imagined for a reporter.' Corey comments.

'Oh – er yes.' She cringes with embarrassment. 'Sorry about that – look, I'm not really a journalist yet. I didn't think you'd let me come along if you knew I was only eighteen. I'm on a gap year before going to Boston to study journalism autumn 1990. But I do have a special interest in Eastern European folklore, vampires especially, and I can't wait to talk to your contact.'

'Vampires?,' Corey sneers derisively.

There's a long pause while Sandra pouts defiantly before deciding he's too gorgeous to alienate. She changes the subject. 'You're a lot younger, as well, and blonder, than I imagined for a Mossad agent,' she says.

'Well, I'm not directly employed – I'm just trained by and affiliated with them for this type of case.' Corey explains candidly. 'I  _am_  Jewish by ancestry and tradition but I guess lots of blue-eyed Dutch has got in there over the centuries. It helps sometimes when getting closer to the marks.' He shrugs and pauses. 'And this assignment is very important to me too. Nazis killed my great grandfather and tried to rape my great grandmother.'

'Oh. I'm so sorry,' says Sandra. A pause.'Your  _great_  grandparents? It was my grandparents' war,' she says.

'Yeah. We breed early in my family.' He shrugs and grins. 'Well, until my brother and me – as our mother is never shy to point out.'

Sandra goes on. 'My granddad was there at the liberation of Belsen. He never talked about it except for this one time when I was eleven and I made a throwaway comment about one of my school friends. He made me read graphic accounts of the most horrific… He showed me his pictures. I threw up. And I cried and cried that I was part of the same species as the Nazis – never mind the same race. Can you imagine how awful it would be to have been to be born German in our generation and have to deal with that guilt?'

Corey says, 'Not all Germans are Nazis huh?'

'Well, they're not now, are they?' says Sandra.

Corey is thoughtful for a moment, and then pulls something that looks much like the present day older lady's locket from under his T-shirt, removes it and shows it to her.

Their heads get very close – it looks as though he takes a surreptitious sniff of her hair.

An extremely close-up examination of the locket reveals that miniscule Dutch script is engraved on the reverse.

Sandra reads the Dutch,

'Niet alle Duitsers zijn Nazis  
Niet alle Amerikanen zijn helden'

Then, still in Dutch, but a different font...  
'Niet alle Arabieren zijn terroristen'

Then she hesitantly but correctly translates,

'Not all Germans are Nazis'

She looks up at Corey who nods encouragement.

'Not all Americans are heroes'  
'Not all Arabs are terrorists'

Corey nods again approvingly, 'That last one's new, especially for me. It's my great grandmother Sarah's. She got that last bit engraved when I started this work and gave it to me last birthday.'

'Wow. When did she get the first part done?'

'At the end of the war, apparently.'

'That's some biblical forgiveness, right there. And a bit of bitterness over Maastricht's liberators. Makes you wonder.'

Corey is impressed, 'Ah, you know your Dutch history.'

'Just Second World War Maastricht – I brushed up before I left.'

She examines it more closely.

'It's welded shut. Why is that? What's inside?'

Corey says, 'It's a picture of my great grandfather. She says her heart was sealed when Johannes was murdered and she could never love again.'

Sandra has tears in her eyes. 'That's so sad. And so beautiful. She must have adored him.'

He reaches over her and turns the locket. There's a florid, curly letter, possibly a "J", engraved on the front. It's very worn, especially at the bottom.

Corey explains, ' J for Johannes de Bakker.'

They arrive at his car. It is a brand new high-end Mercedes.

'Isn't it funny that we're both interested in meeting this same guy for such different reasons?' says Sandra.

She approaches the left hand side as he unlocks the boot for her rucksack.

Corey chuckles, 'You want to drive?'

Sandra says, 'Wha…? Oh. No. Sorry – force of habit.' She pauses for a moment to admire the gorgeous car. 'What? You'd  _let_  me drive this beauty?'

She smiles cheekily at him and says, 'Mossad pay well, huh?'

They swap sides, grin at each other and get in…

Corey turns the ignition and Alice Cooper's "Poison" blares from the radio. He clicks it off and turns to Sandra. 'We are both very fortunate that this gentleman is coming from America at this particular time. He is going to arrive in Berlin the day after tomorrow, to collate and curate the evidence that his late friend and fellow camp survivor Dr David Kaplan has collected on certain SS officers,' says Corey. 'And he can't stay too long apparently - he needs to get back to his business in New York or something. We've still got time to visit my family for my grandfather's birthday though.'

He reverses out of the space and drives off.

* * *

 

Brooklyn Heights,

Out on the daytime streets there is a soundtrack of car crashes, screams, shouts, sirens, gunshot, breaking glass, car and building alarms. It's worse than Big Apple business as usual but not yet a total breakdown of society. Oblivious, a casually but fashionably dressed brunette checks her expensive-looking smart phone revealing an even more expensive-looking watch. This is too much temptation for one hoodie who runs up behind her, pulls the watch off and snatches the phone.

The brunette takes off after him. She is fast, very fast and soon overtakes him, leaps on him and bears him to the ground. She gets in a few good solid punches before she gets to her feet, still keeping him on the ground with a trendy boot to the back of the neck.

'Cowardly, woman-attacking punk - you are under my boot for the theft of my cellphone and fake Rolex. You have the right to be kicked in the head…' she snarls.

 _Thwack!  
_ A scream.

'…the guts…'

 _Thwack!  
_ A groan.

'…the ass…'

 _Thwack!  
_ A squeak.

'… _and_  your shrivelled little nut sac.'

There's an unpleasant squashy sound and the loudest scream yet.

She snatches the phone and watch back as two young men run up, followed by the slightly older and slower Steve Collins.

'You OK, Captain?' asks Steve.

The Captain snaps, 'Don't call me that out here.'

She straightens up, ties her hair back with a scrunchie on her wrist and points at a jewellery store being looted by a gang of three hoodies way down the street.

'Quick, there're some more,' she yells. And they run off again.

 


	3. Quinlan's Debut (Q)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve brings Quinlan some bad news and they act on it. The Sardu-Master is revived with human blood and remembers a lost love. Team Setrakian learn the name of the FinchTV's CEO and decide to dig further. Eichhorst is disturbed by the Well Dressed Man broadcast and the FInchTV CEO's interest in him but gets little sympathy from a cheeky Eldritch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK big guy, you’re up!  
> Quinlan’s debut on FanFiction brought me the reviews I craved so I’m hoping he can work his magic again here with hits.  
> It seems as though every time I post on AO3 I get a flurry of interest on FFN with people presumably trying to find out how the story goes on. Thank you for that. It feels wonderful but it still leaves the AO3 hits looking rather bald so what I think I’ll do after this chapter is dump the entire work on AO3 so that if you’re curious you don’t have to flick over. Some episodes will eventually be heavily edited (especially Captives, which needs gutting, quite frankly) but I will do that later as well as adding the extra Born scenes throughout.  
> I have so much I need to work on to improve as a fanfic writer and loads of ideas spinning round my head that, after I’ve posted my story so far, I need to focus on one or two stories max. Firstly, I will do Quinlan’s romances separately - with point of view and everything - because there is someone I owe for saving me from giving up writing entirely in favour of veggie-growing desperation. I will then consider other fixes.

* * *

 

Mosul, ISIL-occupied Iraq – Present

A burkha-clad figure walks through the ravaged city, the apparel allowing her to pass the patrols unmolested. She doesn’t move with the shuffling, please-don’t-notice-me gait of the other women, instead striding confidently with her head high.

Unfortunately, something about the woman – perhaps that very poise – has attracted the attention of a pair of militants.

The sun is setting, signalling that the curfew is in place by the time she enters a silent bombed-out street that disconcertingly echoes the abandoned neighbourhoods of New York. Her followers take advantage of the privacy to pounce. At first, she tries defensive posturing and some frenzied pleading in Arabic but, when they aggressively push her up against a wall and rip off her burkha, she has to get more physical.

The woman, now revealed wearing a white T-shirt and combat pants, is Eve, Quinlan’s adjutant. She is clearly no amateur when it comes to hand-to-hand combat and, freed from the constraints of the burkha, she swiftly disarms and terminally disables the fighters. She picks up their weapons and the remains of her burkha and ducks into a doorway. Her signature knock is answered only by the sound of heavy bolts being withdrawn.

She enters and calls out without much rancour as she re-secures the door in the dark hallway, ‘Thanks for the help!’

‘You didn’t need it,’ is Quinlan’s rejoinder from another room. It is equally free of inflection.

She joins him in a tiny apartment with two camp beds along either end and lays the guns on the top of a huge pile of confiscated weaponry. Quinlan, clad in desert-camo fatigues, is watching a crackly newsfeed on a tiny portable screen that is dwarfed by all the aerials and dishes surrounding it.

It is immediately clear that here, at last, is that purest and pleasantest of interpersonal relationships - often sought after, rarely witnessed and hardly ever experienced. It is a close, but genuinely platonic, working relationship. Founded on mutual respect and support, it is completely comfortable, devoid of tension of any kind and thoroughly understood by both parties. There is no will-they-won’t-they here, not even a have-they-haven’t-they hanging around in the atmosphere. No one will ever want to write fanfic about this pair. It is obvious that they never have and they never will.

She shortens his name and he uses the longer, more formal version of hers.

‘Oh, you finally got some news out of New York!’ she exclaims.

‘I am certain the Master has arrived there, Évelyne,’ he says. ‘We must leave immediately.’

‘Well now, hang on a minute, Quin,’ she says. ‘I’ve just been with Yehudi...’

Quinlan gives her a look as if he knows exactly what “to be with” means in this instance. It’s not disapproving but he does recognise the euphemism.

‘…He says they’ve received intel that Iran have resumed enriching at Fordo.’

‘Babylon’s site,’ breathes Quinlan.

‘They’re planning a mission to “strategically terminate the facility” which is pretty much Mossad for “nuke it sky high”, of course.’

‘If they destroy Babylon, my son will perish,’ he says, leaping up, as agitated as Quinlan can get. ‘We must stop them.’

Eve nods wearily. ‘Let’s go sabotage the saboteurs, then, eh?’

A little while later, the pair finish loading the armoured vehicle. Quinlan is now wrapped up to the eyes and looks like one of the IS militants. Eve has not replaced the burkha. She heads for the driver’s side but Quinlan intercepts her, placing his hand on the door handle.

 ‘You’re tired,’ he says simply, examining her face. It’s not a tremendous feat of empathic observation. She is clearly exhausted.

She nods and yawns, taking the passenger seat. ‘Wake me when we reach the first bridge.’

If they work together much longer, they’ll be able to dispense with words completely.

* * *

 

New York - Present

A nude and wounded Master, skin charred and peeling, is borne aloft on the shoulders of dozens of acolytes, like a stage-diving rock star, in a huge underground chamber and reverentially lowered in front of a cage of humans. The cage is long but not deep. The corralled people are all ages and races. They are screaming, terrified. The Master emits a sub-bass pulsing rumble and the screams fall silent. The Master's stinger thrusts out and he feeds hungrily and with gratuitous mess.

* * *

Poland 1873

It is a beautiful day, a hot sun is shining on an enormous, classically "Dracula" castle on a hill above a village. Many men and horses are working the surrounding fields.

In the village, an un-made up Robert Maillet using Setrakian's wolf's-head cane limps into the central square. He towers over the villagers and almost over their cottages.

When the children catch sight of him, they run towards him laughing and calling to their friends in Polish, 'Come! Quickly! Lord Sardu is here.'

They cluster around him and, smiling down at them, he produces wrapped sweetmeats from his sack-sized pockets.

He speaks to them kindly and, singling out a little girl, he crouches with much wincing so he can address her chest to face. 'Rula, my dear, how is your mother?'

'Very well, my Lord. My baby brother arrived Sunday last. He's going to be called Jusef in your honour after everything you've done for us after Papa was killed by the boar.'

Sardu beams and stands up with even more wincing.

He addresses a liveried servant behind him. 'Mateusz, make sure the Baluch family get a side of bacon and extra milk each week while I'm away.'

The adult villagers have emerged from their homes; it's only women and old or crippled men. They are all pleased to see him and, while they are somewhat more reverential than the children, there is no fear.

One bold young woman asks, 'Did you say you were going away, your lordship?'

'Yes, Magdalena, I am travelling to Romania, the day after tomorrow.'

'Will you be gone long, my Lord?' she asks.

'A few weeks only. My cousins and some friends insist on taking me to hunt wolves.'

The villagers all gasp.

Magdalena seems particularly concerned. 'Oh be careful, my Lord Sardu.'

Sardu gives Magdalena a playful tweak of the cheek. 'Cheer up, Magdalena. They say I shall come back strong and healthy.'

Magdalena's friend gives her a nudge and whispers a bit too loudly, 'You'd like that, wouldn't you Magda?'

Magdalena blushes but she is not too shy to catch Sardu's eye and seeing him wink, she giggles and curtsies.

* * *

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn - Present

Setrakian is staring at the paused image of he and Eichhorst on the underground platform. He is standing far too close to the 36-inch screen, remote in hand.

'When is the next bulletin due?' he asks.

'Lunchtime, I think, twelve or one, I guess,' says Fet. 'I don't usually bother with TV news. I just check the internet on my phone.'

'And that is no longer an option for any of us,' says Nora.

'Yeah. Yeah, I get it,' says Dutch defensively. 'How many times have I got to say I'm sorry?'

'And since they took down all other TV channels following the doc's little public service broadcast…' says Fet.

Setrakian finishes for him, '…This is the city's only information conduit - maybe the country's.'

'Which means "they" _must_ be Palmer or in league with him,' says Eph.

'It's strange. Finch news always had the reputation of being neutral and ethical, didn't they?' muses Nora. 'They were always the ones you could trust.'

'Maybe they've had a regime change…or Palmer's got something over this Finch person. I mean, what is his name even?' says Eph.

'Alec ffinch-Myles,' says Dutch. 'Or it might be Sir Alec. He's British.' All eyes turn to her. 'Look, I don't want anyone jumping down my throat again but…I recall doing some work for FinchCorp last year. I never met the guy at the top though.'

'What kind of work?' asks Eph suspiciously.

'Mostly cyber security, would you believe – making sure they'd be safe against …'

Nora finishes '…Something like you just pulled on the entire communications system?'

Dutch nods. 'Mmm. And, erm, providing some software that seemed innocent enough at the time but could conceivably be used to hack every security camera in the city – public or private!'

'Boy, you really are the gift that keeps on giving, aren't you?' says Eph. 'Fet, you got any cameras up around here?'

'Only pointing outside,' says Fet.

'So Palmer's bestest new buddy "only" knows we all arrived here last night?' says Eph sarcastically.

Fet leaps up. 'Taking 'em down now.'

Setrakian ignores this – he is absorbed by the newscast. 'My face isn't seen,' he says. 'The two youths in the other clips aren't seen clearly. Only Eichhorst and some other people who I assume are already dead or turned.'

Nora pinches the remote and rewinds and watches the bits with Gus in.

'Actually, I think it's just the one "youth",' she points out. 'He's got Latino skintone, he's wearing the same clothes and look…' she pauses it to show Gus's neck, '…the same leaf tattoo.'

Setrakian stares at the paused image. 'I believe I've met this young man,' he says. 'He returned a stolen clock to me. I was short with him and he called me an…he was rude in return.' He gets more and more enthused. 'If we are both Eichhorst's enemies then that makes us friends. Allies, at the very least. I think that this Finch-Myles fellow may have unwittingly done us a favour. Miss Velders, can you find out more about him?'

He turns back and views Gus laying into Eichhorst again.

'And this young man valiantly trying to beat a _strigoi_ with his bare hands - can we find a name or address?'

'I'll do my best,' says Dutch.

* * *

 

Palmer's breakfast room, Stoneheart building Manhattan Present Day

Eldritch Palmer is rewinding the latest Well Dressed Man appeal for another viewing.

Eichhorst enters from behind him.

Palmer looks round with a nasty smile on his face. 'Oooh those wounds  _are_  taking a long time to heal,' he says.

He uses the remote to point to the screen with the "Wanted" image on it. 'It's OK Finch seems to have got your good side,' he adds.

Eichhorst glances at the TV and comments coldly, 'I don't believe this man can be trusted.'

'Well, not that one, no,' he grins, mischievous in his newfound health as he waves at the screen. It's still Eichhorst's mug shot up there.

Eichhorst ignores him.

Palmer clicks to the film currently being shown on FinchTV. It is _Zombieland,_ cut for a PG-13 audience.

'Why does Finch not agree to meet us? What does he hide?' asks Eichhorst.

'It's just his way. He doesn't meet anyone personally,' says Palmer.

'I don't like these films he shows,' says Eichhorst.

Palmer is dismissive. 'They're just fillers between the newscasts…Which always toe our party line – this morning's little whimsy notwithstanding.'

Eichhorst watches a zombie decapitation and remarks flatly, 'This is an illustrated guide of how to kill us. I want to meet him.'

'Oh, it's just zombies,' says Palmer. 'Look, they never show  _vampire_  movies not even that soppy teenage rubbish. I want to meet him too but the best I can do is the senior execs.'

'Invite him to your birthday celebration,' Eichhorst says.

'All right,' says Palmer. 'But if he shows up, try not to make yourself too offensive. You put people's backs up. We don't want him switching sides like Fitzwilliam. And that Velders girl.' He pauses for a second. 'Or your little courier fellow.' Another beat. 'Or your CDC contact.' He turns back to his companion. 'Good grief, Eichhorst, does everyone who meets you end up wanting to kill you?'

Eichhorst just ignores him and watches the TV, head slightly cocked as if trying to work out the Finch puzzle.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to follow human Sardu’s story to its conclusion but my fiancé said to leave it well alone and he was right – it was done way better on 2.01 BK, NY. I’d cut it but his romance with Magda is referenced later.  
> 3.03 First Born – I had written 735 words in fulsome, ecstatic, even orgasmic praise of this episode and was on the point of posting it as it was, risking the wrath of anyone who disagreed - cos at least then, I’d get to interact with you. However, I have seen the error of my ways and will just say, ‘I LOVED it! I freaking LOVED it!


	4. Alec? Alec? Who the Fuck is Alec?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandra spots a news report about a potential strigoi invasion of the UK and orders the British leadership into ruthless, even homicidal action. Then she remembers meeting her new friend's family in 1989. Setrakian notices that the Well Dressed Man footage holds the hope of new allies. Another section of NYPD choose a more anarchic path than Captain Bartoli's squad and pay Team Setrakian a visit. Dutch unearths some illuminating communication between Finch's CEO and Eldritch Palmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise now that I spent too long on OC-only interaction. From the next episode onwards (The Books) I began to minimise those scenes and, when I have the time and inclination, I will remove large sections of them. I still absolutely detest the scene with Sandra meeting the Henke/De Bakker clan but it is needed for much later on. Please just skim it and don’t judge the rest of the story by it. In future, this chapter will have Gus’ shower scene in it and the search of the sewers by Gus and Vaun.

 

Sandra Edwards' office, Manhattan

On one of the screens the BBC interrupts the scheduled programming for a newsflash.

The newscaster announces, 'Within the last few minutes a cargo plane has arrived at Heathrow from New York's Newark airport. The pressurised hold has been found to be full of containers of people - presumably trafficked. The BBC understands that they are all sick or dying. The security services are readying armed operatives in full biohazard suits.'

'This incident, which is unnervingly similar to that which affected Flight Regis 753 at New York's John F Kennedy Airport on the eighth of February, is the first big test of new Prime Minister …'

Sandra mutes the sound as her smile fades and she picks up one of the clunkier phones and quick-dials MI5. Only her, crisply English, end of the conversation is audible.

She glances briefly up at a row of clocks showing the local time in key cities around the world. New York time is 14:07.

'Good evening Drew. How are you? It's Sandra here.'

'Very well, thank you. Listen, Drew - this Heathrow business – you need to do exactly as I say.'

'Pull your people off and blow it up – sick human cargo and all. The crew must be kept in the strictest quarantine for seventy-two hours. Any showing signs of sickness are to be terminated and their bodies cremated immediately. Should any or all remain 100% healthy for that period of time, they are only to be released after walking fifty yards outside in full sunlight without ill effects.'

'Well, wait until you get another sunny day – they happen at least once a year, I recall.'

'I don't care what story you make up.'

'No. Look - just trust me. Hear me out. You've heard about Regis 753 and what it's led to here, in New York.'

'No. Not just the eclipse. It started with the dead aeroplane.'

'Watch FinchTV, if you don't believe me. It's the only one telling the truth, even though it has to hide it between the lines.'

'Not just this plane either. No other aircraft from the US or continental Europe is to land. Anything in the air en route from an island state can land if passengers and crew undergo the same tests. But nothing is to take off again from ANYWHERE headed to the UK.'

'I don't care where but preferably not the Republic of Ireland if you hope to save Northern Ireland. You may have to give it up anyway if Dublin don't play the game. They're next on my list.'

'And drop people on every container ship that approaches the UK from now on – if there are people in any containers or signs that there have been then blow them too. If you get no response from agents, bomb the ships and ensure no survivors. Shut the ports.'

'The tunnel needs to be destroyed too. Get some of Nigel's bullyboys on that - they want out of Europe so badly, they should be all over it.'

'Drew, Great Britain is isolated from now on.'

While she is having the conversation, France 24 on another screen behind her shows coverage of Paris Gare de l'Est with armoured policiers surrounding freight containers and the rolling banner announcing in French…89 TRAFFICKED PEOPLE - SICK AND DYING WERE FOUND WHEN CUSTOMS OFFICERS HEARD GROANING…

Sandra continues, oblivious, 'You'll need additional security around nuclear power stations and extra extra additional cyber security. If in doubt, assume any and all communications are a threat.'

'Yes, it is that serious. Also - where are the Royal family?'

' _IN NEW YORK_? The Duke  _and_ Duchess? Are you bloody kidding me? Fine. Fine. I'll get them out.'

'But everyone else is safe?'

'It's too bad Theresa was caught out in Germany when it all kicked off. I just hope the new one's up to the job. I'll be calling him now. If he's not on side with everything that needs doing, I'll publish those pictures we talked about.'

'Oh and Drew. Don't think I haven't got anything on you. Make this happen for me.'

She ends the call and quick-dials another number. It looks like "NOIO". Or it might be " No10".

Sandra pours on the smarm. 'Boris, darling…'

* * *

 

Maastricht 1989

Young Sandra and Corey enter a living room and are met by the entire Henke/de Bakker clan except for Corey's brother. The ladies are very excited to meet Sandra but the older lady is obviously quite slow and needs a stick.

Corey introduces everyone, 'Sandra this is my great grandmother Sarah de Bakker, my mother Gude Henke and my grandfather - tomorrow's birthday boy - Pieter de Bakker.' In Dutch he says, 'Everyone - this is Sandra Edwards.

He shouts up the stairs in Dutch, 'Bart! We're back!'

Sandra says, in halting Dutch, 'Hello everyone. Thank you for inviting me to your home. And Happy Birthday Mr de Bakker.'

'Thank you very much. Please call me Pieter,' twinkles the older man.

'Oh she's lovely, Corey,' Sarah, the elderly lady gushes while Corey looks painfully embarrassed. 'It's OK dear we all speak good English here,' continues Sarah. 'Come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. You must call me Sarah. Now, how old do you think my little boy Pieter will be tomorrow?'

Pieter says, 'I'll give you a clue. It's a big one.'

Sandra guesses, 'Forty?'

Pieter laughs uproariously, 'A bit more.'

'Fifty?'

'I'm seventy.'

Sandra turns to Sarah, 'Corey said you started your family young but you must have had Pieter before you were born!'

Sarah giggles like a schoolgirl and gently punches her, 'I  _was_  only nineteen. And it's OK you can stop the flattery now. We are all determined to like you no matter what.'

Sandra turns back to Corey for explanation but he exits quickly and pounds up the stairs two at a time to fetch his brother.

A few minutes later, an unshaven geeky blond gangles down the stairs in front of Corey and stops dead with his mouth open.

Sandra smiles, 'Hi, I'm Sandra.'

After a false start the poor lad gargles, 'Bart.'

'Do you work for Mossad too?' asks Sandra.

Everyone except Bart laughs – the old lady the loudest. 'Hah! No,' she says. 'He's a computer programmer or some such excuse for spending all his time in his room tapping away at that infernal plastic box. How about you? Tell me all about journalism.'

Sandra looks guilty. 'Ah. I may have a tiny confession to make about that…'

'Come on little brother,' says Corey. 'Give Ma and me a hand with the cake.'

We follow them into the kitchen where they converse in Dutch.

Bart says wistfully, 'She's so beautiful. Why can I never get anything like that?'

'She's a human being, mate,' reproves Corey mildly. 'And a kind and smart one too.' He pokes his head around the door for another look and murmurs to himself, 'I didn't think that could exist in the same person.' He turns back to Bart. 'But she's only here for a few days before we head to Berlin. Then, before you or I know it, she'll be back home to write it all up. So some English guy who almost certainly won't deserve her is going to get all "that".'

A smirking Gude reverses out of the pantry where she's overheard the lot. 'You're smitten, Cornelius Henke,' she says. 'How long have you known her?'

She puts the cake on the worktop and places two huge number candles in the centre - seven and zero. She lights them.

Corey says sheepishly, 'Almost three hours.'

'She's special Ma,' says Bart. 'It doesn't take three minutes to see that.' He holds his hand out to Corey. 'I hope it all works out for you.'

Corey shakes the hand and bows with a gently mocking glance at his brother.

Gude pushes past them with the cake on a platter. 'Come on ladies men.'

Sarah and Sandra are whispering to each other and stop guiltily as the others enter.

Sandra smirks as she looks up and catches Corey's eye.

'It's cake time!' announces Corey, 'So stop whatever embarrassing story you're telling, Oma.'

The whole family sing "Happy Birthday" as the cake is paraded into the living room. Sandra joins in. The cake is placed reverentially in front of Pieter. Sandra gets up and waves a camera. 'Please may I take a picture?'

She sets it up quickly and takes the photograph that we saw in her office earlier.

Pieter blows out the candles and everyone cheers.

* * *

 

Fet's Place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Team Setrakian watch the night fall over Fet's with trepidation.

Nora and Fet keep looking over at Zack. Everyone is on the ground floor living space overlooking the basement workshop/storage area. Dutch is absorbed in and tapping on a laptop. Setrakian is absently gazing out of the window, muttering to himself. The television is on, showing "Shaun of the Dead". Zack is lying on his back watching it upside down whilst playing with Kelly's mobile. Eph is drinking (still from a glass and still relatively slowly) and watching Zack as if his mind is elsewhere.

Setrakian is staring out over Brooklyn and, as he gets more enthused, he speaks louder and becomes audible.

'The boy must already know what Eichhorst is,' he muses. 'That will save considerable time and effort in the initiation phase. There might be others like that. Perhaps they can be recruited too?'

He calls to Dutch, 'Miss Velders, I know I've already asked so much of your talents. Would you also be able to find out if any of the Regis 753 victims' Loved Ones have survived? I have a passenger manifest here.'

Setrakian rummages inside his pockets and pulls out a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper.

'I'll see what I can do,' says Dutch, taking the piece of paper and glancing at it, 'but your best bet might be to go to these houses and see if anyone's left unturned.'

'Dead munchers'd be a clue,' says Fet. 'It's good to see you back in the game, Pops.'

The doorbell rings and Nora gets up to go and answer it.

Fet stops her with a hand on her arm, 'Wait! It could be dangerous.'

'Vampires don't ring the doorbell,' she counters.

Nora descends the stairs and threads her way through the "shop" where she opens the door to speak to the caller through the grate. Or, as it turns out, callers.

Four men are there, two with bandanas covering their lower faces.

A bare-faced man asks, 'Everything OK in there?'

'Yes,' says Nora. She looks for badges. 'Are you the Police?'

The second bare-faced man replies, 'Just concerned citizens, Ma'am.'

The first one says, 'We're going door to door checking if shop owners and householders have secured their property. We're clearing blocks. Trying to get a handle on these rioters.'

The second is less diplomatic, 'Agitators and opportunists more like,' he growls. 'Making a bad situation worse.'

The first man says, 'It seems to be worse across the river but there are pockets over here too, so watch yourself.'

One of the bandana wearers leers, 'You alone in there?'

Fet appears behind her. 'Nope,' he says baldly.

The men eye him up and down and the bandana guy asks, 'Are you the…er.' He looks at the gruesome rat catcher window, '…exterminator?'

Fet does one of his upwards-only nods.

The less pleasant barefaced man says, 'If you're looking to leave town, you should go now. The tunnels and bridges are jammed. The train system is going to shit as well.'

The first one says, 'Good luck. You'll need it if you stay.'

' _You'll_  need it if you meet any of these things,' says Fet. 'Any of you catch that broadcast by the fugitive CDC doctor?'

Nora looks uneasily up at him.

The bandana-ed guy at back who hasn't spoken yet says, 'No but the wife said something about it. "Zombies with worms and stingers" she said.'

His friends turn as one and stare incredulously at him.

'Wha-at?' says the married bandana defensively. 'She don't get much sleep at the moment cos the little one's teething.'

'Well, she's right and Dr Goodweather's right,' says Nora.

The "citizens" look searchingly at Nora.

'We've run into some of these freaks ourselves,' explains Fet. 'They're  _just_  like zombies with six-foot tongues. Your bullets won't help you for shit if you don't get 'em in the head. Those crappy movies are right – destroy the brain stem or decapitate them.'

'And sunlight kills them,' adds Nora.

'Yeah, she said summat about dat,' the married bandana says. 'From the broadcast - right at the end.'

Fet nods, 'Why you don't see 'em during the day.'

'And silver hurts them,' adds Nora. 'If you've got some…'

Setrakian's voice comes from the back of the shop, 'Vasiliy? Nora?'

The visitors look a question at Fet and Nora.

'My father's visiting,' lies Fet. 'Gotta go. You go get those sons of bitches.'

The creepy bandana at the back says to Fet, 'You should be getting out here and joining us.'

'I'll think about it,' says Fet.

They return to the others in the living area who look questioningly at them.

'Vigilante cops,' explains Fet briskly.

'I've just found something really interesting,' says Dutch. 'Nothing on your gangster kid yet, I'm afraid but…'

She leans back from the laptop to let everyone else see and says, 'There're some emails between Alec ffinch-Myles and Eldritch Palmer.'

'What did I tell you?' says Eph triumphantly.

'Oh. Two little 'F's,' says Fet spotting ffinch-Myles' name. 'I didn't know you could do that. Maybe I should spell my name like that. Add a little class y'know.'

Dutch smiles.

'The first email is from shortly after the first Well Dressed Man appeal,' explains Dutch.  
The email reads:

 **** _Exposed? I've made him a bloody superhero!_  
Now he can have his pick of the young and the scrumptious that approach  **him** _. Where's the downside?_ _  
_ It is signed with a bird emoticon.

'Here's one from Palmer, sent just after the segment was aired a second time,' she says.  
It reads:

****_That's enough._  
We've allowed you exclusive broadcasting rights but we can rescind them at any time.  
PLAY BY THE RULES. 

'And ffinch's reply,' says Dutch.  
This one says:

 ** _Fine. Fine. I can't believe he's complaining about it, though._** _  
_ There's a bird emoticon for a signature again.

'Then there's one from Palmer,' says Dutch.

**_He's not. But he's asking about you, so watch your step._ **

'And finally…' she says.  
The last one says:

 ** _Always do, E._** _  
_ And a final bird emoticon.

'Obviously, both of these guys were prepared for the collapse of the internet and have some kind of personal communication system just between the two of them,' says Dutch. 'I haven't found out very much else. He's a multi-media baron - kind of like a British combination of Rupert Murdoch and Oprah but reclusive – shuns the limelight. There is hardly any internet presence. What there is is what he wants to reveal. There's no date of birth, no photos, nothing personal at all.'

'I've tried to research the genealogy of the name,' she continues. 'The affected two lower case 'F's are very distinctive and tend to belong to noble British families. But even  _I_  can't access Company House or Somerset House or registers of any kind – I just can't get into any databases that could be of use.

'His address is the FinchCorp building in City of London. And that, along with the long held reputation of telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth that Nora mentioned is all I can find. He's never been tainted with any of the media scandals of recent years – phone hacking, bribing public officials, using private detectives, close friendships with senior politicians. Everyone inside and outside of the profession respects him – even hackers to be honest. I just can't understand why he's suddenly jumped into bed with Palmer.'

'There've been no other mentions of the Well Dressed Man since that second one at nine,' says Nora. 'So he obviously capitulated when Stoneheart put their foot down?'

Fet is still staring at the emails. 'Look at that,' he says, pointing at the first email. '…"the young and the scrumptious"... Do you think he knows what Eichhorst is?'

'Maybe he thinks he's some kind of  _sexual_  predator,' suggests Eph.

Simultaneously Dutch and Nora make a face. 'Yiigh!' they say and, catching each other's eyes, they smile very slightly at each other.

Dutch continues, 'One more thing. He is usually very careful about properly deleting all incoming communication and uber-encrypting the outgoing stuff. I think he wanted us to find these.

 


	5. The Silver Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An elderly Mexican wrestler goes to start his shift at the Indian restaurant downstairs. Vaun informs Gus that he is to recruit more Sun Hunters to the Ancients' cause. Team Setrakian go through the Regis 753 passenger manifest and Dutch postulates that FinchTV are surreptitiously publicising the strigoi threat. Guards are set and sleeping arrangements discussed. In 1508, a merchant caravan is attacked by a familiar face and the sole survivor discovers a surprising treasure trove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t forget, I wrote all this when all I had was season 1 and Book 2 to go by. The dynamics within Team Setrakian didn’t pan out as I predicted. I thought Nora would have had the spine to tell Eph that one screw on the rug did not a relationship make and if he was going to pine after his wife he could do it without her having to watch it. I also thought that, since Dutch and Fet had known each other for an hour and a half, a meaningful relationship ought to take a little longer to develop and I really wanted them together for keeps. I also anticipated a younger Zack who would be quite happy sleeping in his Dad’s room rather than the sullen teenager he became overnight.  
> Also, Stoneheart seemed to be effectively keeping the people of NYC in the dark about the strigoi threat at the end of season 1 and the beginning of book 2 so I continued that.

Long Island City, Queens

  
An elderly, overweight Latino man sits in a messy apartment with takeaway cartons, empty bottles and dirty laundry all over the floor. Washing up is piled in the sink while he dozes in a filthy armchair. A grainy DVD of El Angel de Plata's greatest hits is playing.  
In a dream, he flashes back to Mexico and his career as "The Silver Angel", a wrestler and action movie star. He dreams of his superhero comic strip where he zapps, kapows and kersplatts all kinds of enemies but frequently caped, stereotypical vampires. He is wearing a silver coloured mask in every shot and even in interviews. The dream becomes a nightmare as his knee gets badly broken during the making of a vampire movie.  
His mobile chirps and he wakes and struggles up wincing, limping badly on his right leg. The silver mask from the video and the dream is sitting on a side table, gathering dust and food stains.  
He prepares to go to work downstairs. He puts on a knee brace and takes some time carefully applying an additional makeshift splint on top.  
He slowly, painfully makes his way down several flights and towards the Taj Mahal Indian Takeaway and Delicatessen next door.  
The door is locked. He knocks and calls out in a heavy Mexican accent, 'Mr Gupta? Mr Gupta? Hello? Is anyone in there?'  
He turns away and then back again, 'Mr Gupta? It's Angel here. It's nearly time to open up.'  
He goes all around the building knocking on windows and doors to the same effect. Then he reluctantly slogs painfully back upstairs again.

* * *

 

The Ancients' facility

  
After the reconnaissance mission in the sewer beneath Stoneheart, Gus and Vaun are in one of the concrete rooms. The television is on and FinchTV is showing a scruffy toothless old man on a talk show couch telling America about the "tunnel freaks with human faces, seven-foot tongues and worms in their blood". The host is treating him like a nutter and generally ridiculing him. He laughs at a detailed description of strigoi feeding and asks the poor guest how much meths he's been drinking.  
'We can provide you with anything you need to slay the impure,' says Vaun. 'Money is not an obstacle. Nor are weapons. We need you to recruit more sun hunters to the campaign. They must be as skilled and ruthless as you. Your only restriction is secrecy. Concealment of the existence of the Ancients is of paramount importance.'  
Gus nods. 'But you all seem to know so much about me,' he says. 'That’s one more thing that doesn't seem right here.'  
'Like the Rogue, the Ancient Ones have connections - even Eternals, in the highest levels of human society.' explains Vaun. 'As you and I, they are working against the rebel and his expansionist schemes. Nevertheless the Ancients… value their privacy. Do you understand?'  
Gus is silent but nods once.  
'Now, do you know where to find some more warriors?' asks Vaun.  
A dark smile spreads slowly across Gus' face.  
'You're thinking of the old man,' says Vaun. 'Know that he is not an option.'  
'Nope,' says Gus. 'I got a better idea.'

* * *

  
Fet's place Red Hook, Brooklyn

  
Setrakian, Fet, Eph and Nora are gathered around Setrakian's passenger manifest on a large table, working out where to go first.  
Fet pokes the first name. 'OK. Are not. Arnotte?' he tries.  
'Arnot,' smirks Eph.  
'Definitely not,' says Setrakian glancing at Eph and Nora.  
Fet looks around at everyone, not understanding. 'Barbour,' he says.  
'Only the children survived,' says Eph, 'and they're better off with their aunt.'  
Nora is thoughtful. 'Perhaps we should check the survivors' families first,' she suggests. 'The disease had a slower progression in them. Their Loved Ones might have had more time to realise something was wrong and escape or fight back.'  
'OK,' says Eph. 'So…' He twists the manifest out of Fet's hands. '…Bolivar? That'd be an emphatic "No".'  
'That leaves Luss and Redfern,' says Nora.  
'Doyle?' says Eph. 'Well, we watched his deterioration ourselves – sooo…' Eph raises his head to look at Nora. '…that means that dreadful Luss woman,' he grimaces.  
Fet regains the list and, reading with a finger, says, 'Bronxville. That's a long way out.'  
Dutch is sitting apart, still at the laptop. 'Erm, what about Nikki?' she asks. 'Our apartment is really close.'  
'We've already been there remember,' says Eph impatiently. 'Straight after the raid on the pawnshop. There was no one. It had already been several days since she ditched you at the gas station.'  
'She went back and stole my stuff,' says Dutch not letting go. 'She survived that night. She might've come back or left a message.'  
'Or she might have been turned after you separated,' says Setrakian. 'We shouldn't leave loose ends.'  
Dutch bridles at that and starts to protests but swallows it, perhaps because she's getting what she wants.  
'You and Vasiliy will come with me to your apartment at first light,' says Setrakian. 'Then we'll all head to Mrs Luss' house. Now, we should get some rest. I don't think anyone slept properly last night, scattered as we were about the floor. I know I didn't.'  
'Should we post a guard?' suggests Fet.  
'Good idea,' says Setrakian, approvingly. 'Two people should stay awake for a couple of hours at a time.'  
'I'll take the first watch,' volunteers Dutch. 'I want to stay up and search for your Latino Boy-Buffy.'  
Everyone looks blankly at her.  
'The Vampire Slayer? Buffy the Vampire Slayer?' says Dutch incredulously. 'One girl in all the world…? Mum never let me watch it, which of course made it irresistible. Geez you are all so old.'  
'Hey!' protests Zack from the floor in front of the television.  
'Or too young,' she says. Then, as if realisation dawns, 'Oh. Of course, Angel and Spike…'  
'Huh?' says Fet.  
'I've been wondering why there've been all these zombie movies on FinchTV and yet no vampire ones,' she explains. She gestures at the television where Zack is half-watching a zombie being pithed with a golf club.  
Setrakian is catching the idea. 'Vampires in popular culture are often depicted as charismatic figures of power,' he says. 'Capes, evening dress, castles - stylish and gothic.'  
'Nowadays, it's more pale and gorgeous,' says Dutch. 'Hot teenagers with six-packs, telling you how lonely they are or promising a journey of sexual awakening. I'd've thought Palmer would want to tap into that and sell an image of a vampire that's not gonna turn you into a mindless blood junkie.'  
'The zombie movies are actually much more realistic aren't they?' says Nora. 'Fet just referenced them when he was telling those off duty cops how to kill vampires.'  
Eph is unconvinced. 'Do you really think this Finch guy isn't helping Palmer and the Master – that he is, in some way, helping spread the truth?' he says. 'Look at that chat show earlier – the host was ripping that homeless guy to shreds over his description of "monsters" in the subway.'  
'Yeah, but at least the story was on TV,' says Dutch. 'The public can make their own minds up. If Palmer's watching Finch's output, it would be the only way he could get the info out there. Think about it.'  
'She's gotta point,' says Fet. Then he says to Dutch, 'I'll stay up with you.'  
Eph says sarcastically, 'Of course you will.'  
Dutch shrugs a "whatever".  
'Can Dad and I take a shift together?' asks Zack.  
Eph is delighted. 'Sure, Z,' he says. 'We can do the middle of the night shift.' Then he turns to Fet. 'Oh yeah, where are we all sleeping?' he asks.  
'I thought you two could share the box room and the girls could take the spare room, leaving you…' he nods at Setrakian, '…mine. I'll take the couch in the basement.'  
'That's a most generous offer but I can't say an unwelcome one,' says Setrakian.  
Fet shrugs.  
'I'll try not to wake you when I get to bed,' says Dutch to Nora. 'We'll have to have that naked pillow fight some other time.' She nods at Fet, smiling sarcastically.  
Setrakian asks Nora, 'I hope you don't mind waking me at four?'  
'As long as you don't sleep in the nude,' she says and, without waiting for a reply, she jogs blank-faced upstairs.

* * *

  
Zagros Mountains (Modern Day Iran-Iraq Border) - 1508

  
A European merchant caravan of about thirty men is camped for the night. There is a fire with something skinned cooking on a spit. About half are patrolling the perimeter with swords, hand cannons and arquebuses. The horse-drawn wagons and camels loaded with chests and bundles of silk are in the centre. There are no tents – the sleepers just lie wrapped in their fur cloaks.  
One young man is edgy and, indicating the security detail, says in Italian, 'It's still not enough. Remember what the seer said. They need silver shot.'  
An older, fatter, better-dressed man sneers, 'I'm not wasting my profits just because you believe an old woman's ghost stories, Paolo. Now go and get some sleep - you're on third watch.'  
Paolo stomps sulkily off and packs some small silver coins down his hand cannon's barrel before cuddling it to sleep.  
Paolo wakes to explosions, screams, neighs and camel gurgling. He sits up as his boss falls across him, eyes staring, pale with exsanguination. There are two puncture wounds on his throat and a worm is wiggling out of one towards Paolo. He screams. Horrified, he pushes the body off and bolts taking a point blank face shot at one of the 'bandits'. The silver coins embed in a strigoi face melting it horrifically.  
Paolo flees in the moonlight. A terrified horse overtakes him and he grabs its harness. It is a hairy-legged packhorse, not a sleek thoroughbred but it's obviously still faster than him. It doesn't neigh or whinny or nicker. We hear only its breathing and hoofbeats. Paolo mounts untidily and gallops, legs and arms flailing, until he and the horse run up against a wall of rock. There is still no whinnying or rearing although there is an equine grunt. Paolo leans forward and dismounts correctly. He urgently feels along the wall for any exit. With the sounds of strigoi pursuit getting closer, he enters a cave via a tiny slit. It is far too small for the horse and now Paolo hears some terrified neighing outside as he cowers at the very back of the cave. The walls and opening of the cavern are studded with metallic ore. Outside, the strigoi gather and scent that he's inside but won't enter.  
Their leader arrives. It is Vaun but less scarred than the vampire we know.  
‘Silver!’ he exclaims, examining the mineral deposits in the rock. ‘Stay until daybreak. We can always track him later.’  
Paolo finds a clay urn, almost completely buried at the back of the cave. It's as big as he is. He kicks it open and discovers a stash of tablets covered with Sumerian script and bound back and edges with silver.


	6. Recruitment Drive (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1508, Paolo the Venetian merchant takes advantage of the sunrise to escape his bolt-hole with the silver tablets as booty but he runs into some angry locals. Gus and Vaun go recruiting. Sandra eyes up her own head-hunting target, notes the success of her callous commands to the UK government and yet there is someone she calls "sir"! She remembers beginning to fall in love in 1989. The Silver Angel's morale is boosted by watching his early work. Fet and Dutch discuss her accent, which was plainly acquired long before the age of fifteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again far too much Sandra/Corey waffle –sorry. Will fix later.

* * *

Zagros Mountains - 1508

Paolo is huddled shivering in the back of the cave as sunlight filters in through the opening. He approaches it apprehensively and listens. After a while, he tentatively pokes his head out and after a moment of uncertainty blows his cheeks out with relief. In the light of a new day, it is obvious the small cave mouth is artificial. Rock has been moved in some way to close the natural wider opening - either by great strength or explosive blasting. Or it could have been the long hard work of a pyramid-building team. He returns to the back of the cave, removes his shirt and wraps all but one of the tablets in it then ties it over his shoulders as a makeshift backpack. He wields the last silver tablet as a weapon - a poor replacement for the hand cannon he dropped when he scrambled on the horse. He leaves the cave and sees that he and his horse ran up into a blind ravine last night. He cautiously exits the ravine and looks about the plateau. There is a river in the distance but there's no sign of his horse or any other living thing.

He follows the river upstream as it becomes narrower and faster. He has to do some serious mountain climbing to achieve this and he puts the last tablet in with the others, leaving him weaponless. The sun is declining.

It is early evening when he spies a native camp in the middle distance. He runs towards it and, when the mocha-tanned native men spot him, they charge at him screaming and take him down, shiny-tipped spears pointing at his throat.

A very elderly green-eyed woman with a gnarly wooden staff calls out and hobbles towards the action. She is as dark-skinned as the other natives who, without exception, all have dark brown eyes.

At her word, the strong young men withdraw their weaponry and stand aside, heads bowed.

The boldest addresses her feet, 'He is so white,' he says in an unintelligible language, 'he must be one of them.'

'It is still daylight,' the Elder points out.

'So white, my lady,' insists the bold warrior. 'Let's make him do the test.'

The old lady considers for a moment and then nods once slowly as if granting a great concession.

They grab him again and manhandle him towards the stream and, in particular, a tree trunk bridge precariously perched high over a very white rocky stretch. It leads, not to the other side of the river but to a tiny eyot with a rude shelter half falling down on it. The stream is not leapable in any way. Paolo ties his tablet bundle around his neck and attempts this on all fours. He soon falls under the log and has to edge his way along like a sloth – then the bundle works loose and he has to let go with both hands to grab the main bundle and a stray tablet. He dangles by his legs to gasps from native women and shouts from the men that could be encouragement or derision. He re-ties the bundle and gets his hands back on for a while but then his legs slip off and he finishes the journey Tarzan style before swinging himself up on to the eyot and collapsing exhausted.

At the feet of the old woman.

He looks up at her incredulously and she points to a wide, secure bridge fifty yards upstream. It had been hidden behind some bushes but from this vantage point is clearly visible. The warriors are all laughing uncontrollably at him – most are doubled over and some are crying.

The old lady indicates the shack with her hand, as if in invitation.

* * *

 

Alonso Creem's Showroom Long Island City, Queens

Gus swaggers in carrying a large holdall.

Creem leaps from his seat and draws his gun. After a beat, his mountainous Nigerians do likewise.

'Hey, hey, be easy there homey, be cool,' says Gus, inexplicably cocky. 'Don't you wanna know why I'm back?'

Creem doesn't lower his weapon but he doesn't fire it either and the others follow his lead. He just stares at Gus, waiting.

Gus slowly puts the bag on the table messing up the neat piles of dollars they had been gambling with. One of the men growls and twitches but Creem gives him a sidelong stare and there is no bloodshed yet.

Gus unzips the bag and steps back, waving Creem to inspect the contents. No one moves until Gus puts his hands on his head. Creem looks inside and finds his money and weapons returned.

' Don't need 'em no more,' says Gus triumphantly and he slowly backs out lowering his hands. He starts to turn his back on Creem and his men, then turns back as if just remembering something. 'Might need you though,' he says. Creem and his crew burst out laughing.

Gus is annoyed and gives a short whistle.

Vaun strides in, hood down and dumps an even bigger bag even more destructively down on the poker game. Cards and money go everywhere. It's too much for the beefcake who was winning and he looses a few rounds into Vaun's chest.

At the sound of gunfire, half a dozen silent, hooded figures materialise to menace the doorway but don't enter. Despite everything he's seen before, Gus is aghast… until Vaun tuts and opens the new bag as if the Nigerian had only spilt a drink over him.

The shooter can't resist examining first his weapon and then Vaun's chest. He gently teases the vampire's coat open and jerks back to see white oozing from the holes in the clothing. He slowly raises his eyes to Vaun's face and takes in the scars, pallor and all-black eyes, apparently for the first time. There's the surprisingly loud noise of twenty stone of meat hitting concrete as he collapses at Vaun's feet.

Everyone ignores the fallen man and Vaun pulls out bundle after bundle of hundreds and fifties from the bag and offers Creem two silver knuckle dusters saying, 'To match your teeth.'

Creem nods at the hooded figures behind Vaun. 'Who're these other guys?' he asks coolly, although he's already wearing the knuckle dusters.

'The Ancients have selectively recruited both exceptional warriors and the rich and influential throughout history,' replies Vaun. 'They are not like the renegade who styles himself "the Master" - indiscriminately making vast numbers of grunt minions.'

Gus can't help asking about his number one target, 'What about the waxy German? He don't grunt.'

'Ancients, masters, waxy Germans? What the hell are you talking about?' says Creem. He is ignored.

'He was chosen for a higher purpose,' says Vaun to Gus. 'Possibly as a human-immortal liaison. He can speak, whereas most of my kind cannot. And he retains some of his former self, albeit corrupted in his Master's image.'

'Er,' begins Gus, unusually reticent. 'Does he have a nose like you or does he look like…you know…kinda decayed…like those Ancient dudes?'

'I am…ah… unusual,' says Vaun. 'As a mature eternal,  _he_  probably uses makeup and prosthetics in order to pass among the living.' Vaun turns back to Creem. 'Are you in? We start tonight.'

'He prob'ly don't have the stomach for it,' goads Gus. ' He's a dealer, not a fighter.'

'We're in,' announces Creem. 'But you gotta explain some shit first.'

* * *

 

Sandra Edwards' Manhattan offices

Sandra watches a CCTV feed of Mr Fitzwilliam checking into a hotel near the Stoneheart building. He is still suited but his tie is loose and the top shirt button is undone. Sandra watches thoughtfully for a while, still twirling the locket in gloved fingers.

* * *

 

Maastricht 1989  
Corey's apartment bedroom  
and Sandra's hotel room

Corey and Sandra are getting dressed to meet again for the road trip to Berlin.

Lisa Stansfield's "This is the right time (to believe in love)" is on the radio in both rooms.

Corey tries on faded jeans, white T-shirt, a black leather jacket and Tom Cruise Ray-Bans. He checks himself out in the mirror and shakes his head in disgust.

In her room, Sandra dresses in the previous day's tomboy outfit of jeans, T-shirt and Doc Martens. She examines herself from every angle, then flaps her arms in frustration and walks off.

Corey dons a three-piece suit, looks at his reflection for a second or two and rolls his eyes.

Next up for Sandra are her bikini top, hot pants, strappy sandals and hair down. She fluffs her hair, pouts, pulls a couple of provocative poses and shakes her head.

Corey tries dressing down in his gym kit of camou shorts and baggy vest top. It has oversized armholes designed to reveal honed pectorals. Once again, he shakes his head then takes off the vest, bundles it up and sniffs. With a grimace he dropkicks it away. His phone rings.

Sandra then tries a slinky little black dress and holds her hair up sophisticatedly. She sighs and looks around at the contents of her backpack strewn on the bed. She packed light and there is only one remaining option.

When they meet again in the hotel lobby, he's in a short-sleeved turquoise shirt and chinos and she's plumped for a sleeveless blue summer dress. They can't stop smiling at each other.

'I'm sorry, Sandra,' says Corey - still grinning and not looking at all sorry, 'I should have phoned before. I got a call just now from Professor Setrakian. He can't make it for another fortnight at least. Something important has come up. He didn't say what but he said he'd explain when he came over. What did you want to do? Do you want to go home and come back when he confirms his flight?'

Sandra thinks for a moment. 'No. Actually, I'd quite like to stay. It'll probably not be a long delay and I'd love to talk to your grandfather and great grandmother again. I bet they've got fascinating stories. Do you think they'd tell them to me?'

' _Oma_  would be  _delighted_  to spend more time with you,' says Corey, 'but don't listen to anything she tells you about me.'

Sandra grins. 'And, if you wouldn't mind, I'd really like to go to a shooting range and also, learn some of that unarmed combat you guys do.'

'Krav Maga?' says Corey, his face lighting up at the prospect.

'That's the fella.'

* * *

 

Angel's apartment, Long Island City, Queens

Angel Guzman Hurtado aka " The Silver Angel" arrives back in his flat and looks around at the detritus of his failed life. He picks up the silver fabric mask and takes it into the tiny kitchen. He looks for something to clean it with but the dirty dishes are up to his chest so he wanders out to the filthy bathroom where he tenderly washes it under a tap. Leaving it to dry on the radiator he returns to his armchair, pours himself a mug of tequila and settles down for a re-run of " _El Angel de Plata contra el Retorno de los Vampiros_ ", "The Silver Angel versus the Return of the Vampires".

It had been his biggest grossing film. In it he is valiant and powerful, stopping at nothing to defeat evil and save his friends (not to mention a curvy brunette half his age). He uses his trademark wrestling move of "the Angel's kiss" (a powerful open palm strike to the face) to knock the big bad away from the neck of the bronzed lovely. The girl squeals with delight as Angel drives a rubbery stake through the fiend's heart and the world is saved.

Angel sits up straight, downs the drink and, grabbing some keys and his soggy mask on the way out, stomps downstairs again.

The movie is still playing.

* * *

 

Fitzwilliam's Manhattan hotel room

Reggie Fitzwilliam tries to contact his brothers Major Augustus in West Point and Dr Bertram in Boston - to no avail. After the last phone call has met with a 'this service has been disconnected' auto voice, he sits on the edge of his bed and with a weary sigh, he drops his head into his hands.

* * *

 

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Fet brings he and Dutch some coffee and toast.

'You nervous at all?' he asks. 'About tomorrow.'

Dutch nods and her pale face confirms it. 'I don't even know if it was love,' she says. 'I don't know whether, if she was...you know..."turned", or whatever...if she'd come back for me. Or if it was the other way round, would I seek her out? But I know I don't want to have to kill her...Or what's left of her,' she adds as Fet opens his mouth to correct her.

'Have you got anyone who might come for you?' she asks him.

'Only my parents,' he says. 'I warned my dad when I saw my first vamp and well, they know where to find me... so I'm choosing to believe that they got out. How about your mum?'

'She must be safe back home in London,' she says. 'I haven't heard from her since I left home. Not even with all this...' she waves her hands around indicating the general chaos of New York, '...happening - which I assume must be on the news over there. She obviously doesn't care about me.'

'London is home?' asks Fet.

' _Was_  home,' she says.

'I thought you got your accent when you crossed the ocean for an English girl,' he says.

Dutch laughs out loud. 'Yeah, that's what I told you 'cos you were interrogating me and making such a big deal out of knowing all the New York accents. You couldn't even spot that it wasn't American.'

Fet leans back temporarily speechless.

'I thought everyone knew that accents were fixed by your early teens,' she says. 'I did cross the ocean for a girl but it was in the other direction.'

Fet looks like he's working up to ask Dutch something else but she pre–empts him. 'Thanks for staying up with me - keeping vigil, kind of, before...you know...' she says.

Fet smiles. 'I got ya back,' he says.

'Yeah, I know,' she says. Then awkwardly, almost begrudgingly, she says, 'You saved my life in Bolivar's, jumping on Eichhorst when he came at me.'

'Well, right back at ya,' says Fet, 'I wouldn've been able to stay on him so long if you hadn't've pumped him full of silver. He's powerful strong for a little grey suit.'

'And back at Stoneheart,' Fet continues, 'when I thought we were about to be whacked by Palmer's goons. I always hoped I'd have the guts, y'know, if I was ever in that kinda situation, to face up to it like a man – but you were brave first, standing up straight like that and looking 'im in the eye - you gave  _me_  the strength to face im down.'

She smiles weakly and yawns. 'Yeah. I'm a proper hero. I wonder what happened to old Reggie. Did he ever grow a pair and stand up to Palmer? If he did, he'd be a great one for the old guy's army. He  _definitely_ knows about vampires and I bet he can handle himself. You're the only fighter we've got right now. The doc's gonna be a liability, if he carries on moping and drinking.'

'We always need medics,' says Fet generously and stifles a yawn of his own.

'We need  _one_  medic,' she says flatly. 'Nora might be sopping wet but she's done what he can't. I hope I can do it as well, if I have to. God, I hope Nikki's OK.' Dutch yawns again and turns back to the computer.

* * *

 

Sandra Edwards' Office, Manhattan

Sandra is in the middle of a phone call. Someone is giving  _her_  orders for a change...

'...give my best to their royal highnesses, sir,' she says. 'Yes sir, of course.'

'Within the hour,' she says.

She is very respectful but stops just short of obsequious.

'Thank you sir. Goodnight.'

In the background a screen shows BBC News reporting an explosion on the stricken aeroplane at Heathrow and that the Channel tunnel has been closed due to "an ongoing incident". The murderous commands she barked this afternoon have been swiftly obeyed. She glances at the screen and nods but doesn't even smile.

* * *

 

Maastricht 1989

Corey and Sandra enter a sports hall. She's back in jeans and T-shirt but there's more make-up and she continues to give Corey the doe eyes at every opportunity.

'Do I need to dress up in one of those white judo things?' asks Sandra.

'No, no. Krav maga is self defence for the real world.'

'Look,' he says, 'I'm not an expert and I'm certainly no teacher. I don't know what you're expecting from these sessions...' he tails off looking apprehensive.

'I just want the basics. I want an alternative to the running-away-screaming-like-a-little-girl technique that's my only option at present. I don't want always to have to rely on a big strong man to protect me.' She looks at him defiantly. 'Can you help me with that?'

Corey looks both impressed and a touch intimidated but he smiles and nods. 'Krav promotes avoidance of confrontation where possible,' he warns. 'Running off screaming might be the best decision. If you can escape you should. Defuse a threatening situation, distract or even deceive your attacker. Do anything you can to survive.'

'But if I can't, I want to be able to fight back effectively,' Sandra insists. 'Really hurt an assailant. Krav maga's about aggression too isn't it? Its more counter attack than pure defence?'

'Woah, OK. That's quite some anger you got there,' he says trying to calm her down. 'Did your ex give you that?'

'A bit,' she admits, deflating slightly. 'But some of it is just my essential inner bitch.'

'Well stay in touch with her,' he says. 'You can certainly use her later.'

Corey continues, 'Tonight we'll go out and work on awareness of surroundings - identifying threats, spotting potential weapons or escape routes - that sort of thing. Now we'll try out some dodges and throws...'

 


	7. First Hunt (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch falls asleep and Fet takes care of her. Sandra pays a visit in the present and makes a confession in 1989. Emboldened by his on-screen persona, Angel investigates the Taj Mahal restaurant. In 1508, Paolo escapes with his silver tablets and retribution is swift and harsh. Zack paints his father a picture of domestic bliss that Eph buys into with surprising fervour. Vaun’s new recruits go on their maiden mission.

* * *

Fet's Place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Fet is in the front, shop part, of the ground floor. He is taking time checking the locks and making certain everything is secure. When he returns to the living room, he sees Dutch has fallen asleep at the laptop.

'Been working you too hard,' he murmurs.

He quietly picks her up, careful not to knock the furniture and carries her down the stairs. He lays her on his couch/bed and covers her with a blanket. He brews himself an espresso, grabs one of his Real Estate home magazines, smiles down at her and returns to the living area.

* * *

 

Reggie Fitzwilliam's hotel room, Manhattan

Reggie Fitzwilliam has kicked off his shoes and is lying, otherwise fully dressed, on the bed staring at the ceiling. There's a knock at the door and he looks through the peephole. He's surprised to see Sandra Edwards standing there alone. She's still wearing the trouser suit and polo neck ensemble from the daytime. She smiles disarmingly as if she knows she's being scrutinised. Fitzwilliam still looks puzzled but he opens the door.

Before he can ask, Sandra extends a gloved hand. 'Good evening Mr Fitzwilliam.' she says. 'My name is Sandra Edwards. I represent Alec ffinch-Myles and FinchCorp.'

In the background FinchTV shows a black unliveried helicopter taking off from the top of a skyscraper. The newscaster announces '... is headed for Stewart Air National Guard Base Newburgh. From there the RAF will take the Duke and Duchess of…' Fitzwilliam turns it off.

'We understand that you have recently left Stoneheart and we wish to offer you a new position with us. Our package is very attractive,' Sandra purrs, 'but we may make some unusual demands of you.'

'Such as...' says Fitzwilliam looking her up and down. 'I'll be honest, I've not had the best of luck working with Europeans in suits, of late.'

Sandra smiles broadly. 'So I understand,' she says. 'Let me assure you - we are quite different. You won't regret our partnership.'

'Well, let's talk,' says Fitzwilliam pulling out a chair for her.

* * *

 

Maastricht 1989

Sandra and Corey are strolling through night time Maastricht trying to find a bit of action.

'Not very exciting is it?' says Sandra. 'Must be all that legal pot. Makes you mellow.'

'Wait 'til the bars start closing,' says Corey.

'When will that be?'

'In a few hours,' he says.

'Hours,' she says, sounding dismayed. 'Can we go and get a drink while we're waiting, then?'

Corey smiles. 'Sure,' he says.

They turn and amble off in another direction.

After a while, Sandra asks, 'What's  _your_  social life like here in Maastricht. Are there many other spies your own age you hang out with? Lady spies?'

He laughs. 'I'm not a Jewish James Bond, Sandra. I'm more like...kind of like a detective. Particularly, finding Nazis that have gone deep underground, the sort that other agents have given up as dead. That kind of stuff.'

There's a few seconds of silence, then he adds, 'But no. No ladies at present. Detectives, spies or otherwise.'

'No, no, of course,' she muses, 'You probably have to stay detached and available in case any hot granddaughters of Nazis need sleeping with, to get them to give up their family secrets.'

'Gak,' says Corey and clears his throat. 'Still not James Bond here,' he laughs nervously. 'I've never had to do that.'

There's another pause, an awkward one. 'How about you?' he hazards. 'Anyone since the vet student?'

'No,' she says. 'And he wasn't a student. He was a lecturer in Equine Reproduction at Cambridge University.'

'How did you meet him?'

'I don't want to say,' she demurs. 'You're going to think I'm a tart.'

'No, I swear I'll think only good things about you.'

'OK,' she starts. 'One of our mares was sent there because she wouldn't accept the stallion. Any stallion. She was very well bred and worth a fortune, but not if we couldn't breed from her.'

'I went with them, to handle her because she was a total psycho but I wasn't afraid of her and she knew it.'

'Well,' she continues, 'James examined her and then stood back and said "There's nothing organically wrong with her. I'd like to try tying her up." And I joked "Sounds like fun but what shall we do about the horse?" And it all happened pretty much as you can imagine from that point.'

It looks like Corey  _is_  imagining it but he manages to say,' How old were you?'

'Oh, it was only last year. I  _was_  seventeen.'

'And him?'

'Thirty six.'

'That's disgusting!' he says as Sandra looks crestfallen. 'He was far too old for you. He shouldn't have taken advantage.'

Sandra brightens to hear she isn't being blamed but says, 'Don't hate me, but it was really the other way around, if I'm being honest. But he wasn't married or anything, if that's what you're thinking,' she adds in her defence.

'No, that wasn't what I was thinking,' he says, his face unreadable.

He strides on in silence but Sandra is rewarded with a warm smile when she scampers to catch up.

* * *

 

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Fet rouses Dutch gently at the end of his shift, murmuring 'I won't tell.' Then he walks, surprisingly softly, up the stairs to wake Eph and Zack.

'All quiet so far boys,' he whispers.'Keep your voices down for old Uncle "V" huh? I don't have a door between us.'

He pads down to his couch and snuggles happily up to the Dutch-scented pillow, muttering, 'Gotta love that Chanel.'

* * *

 

Taj Mahal Takeaway and Delicatessen, Long Island City, Queens

Angel unlocks the front door. The street is eerily quiet for a New York night. A few people who have to be out scurry past looking nervous. There are distant alarms but not enough police sirens responding. The keys are newly cut and he struggles with them for a minute.

When he does gain entrance, the smell makes him gag. Despite the membrane-searing stench of ammonia, he shuts the door and locks himself in. He tries the light switch but nothing happens. He takes out a mobile and, keeping an eye out for sudden movements, he flicks through until he finds a photo of sunlight on snow. Using this as a torch, he looks around. The takeaway counter area is empty but he is spooked enough to search for the Guptas' gun in the cash register.

The gun makes Angel brave enough to search the kitchen. The fridge has been left ajar. He takes a peek and recoils from the smell of rotting food. 'Why no rats?' he murmurs in Spanish.

He goes back and unlocks the deli. He's getting too nervous to call out the Guptas' names now. Crouching down and peeking around shelves, he creeps slowly around the shop. Finding nothing but stink, he gets a little bolder.

There is nowhere else to search but the basement. He tries to sneak down the stairs but each wooden creak is like a shot in the heart. The smell is getting worse and the hand holding the phone goes to cover his nose. The light catches what appeared to be bags of rubbish and they start to move.

The newly turned vampires had been sleeping in, exhausted by the transformation. Startled, he empties the magazine into the mess of vamps, throws the gun at them and then charges them, senseless with terror - kicking, punching and screaming. He recognises them as the Gupta family and stops. 'Mr Gupta? Shobhna? Deepak?' Two young children snarl and lunge clumsily at him knocking him down. He scrabbles away on his backside and crawls towards the wall. He is now directly opposite the stairs and his escape route.

His back to the wall, he scooches around, barely dodging some stinger thrusts from elderly Grandma Gupta and finds a door handle pressing into his buttock. He glances behind but the door is nailed and painted shut. He wields the torch/phone as a weapon now and the light does briefly discomfort the vampires, giving him enough time to try the door. The knob comes off in his hands and he realises that this is the Silver Angel's last stand.

He throws the phone at the Guptas and fumbles in his pockets, searching.

* * *

 

Zagros Mountains 1508

Night has fallen over the native village. The seer is woken by Vaun shouting in the unintelligible language they share. She hobbles out of the island shack to discover Vaun and his band of vampires each holding a hostage.

'Where is the boy with the tablets?' asks Vaun.

The old lady points to a dot on the moonlit horizon as Paolo paddles a native dugout down the rapidly flowing stream. Vaun roars with rage. 'Then we shall slaughter your people,' he says. 'Who will bring you food then, old woman?'

The old lady is calm. 'Would that bring your masters the writings they protect?' she asks.

Vaun takes some deep breaths and also calms down. 'No,' he admits. 'But we need to eat. We shall just take these.' He and his hunters feed on man, woman and child. Some of the spared villagers scream and charge the vampires but they are easily batted away even by the feeding.

The seer watches in silent agony and weeps. When it is over, she kneels painfully on the island and begs. 'Do not allow them to turn, please,' she pleads. 'Don't make me ask their parents, and brothers and lovers to kill them.'

Vaun looks up and meets her eyes for a few moments. He bows his head to her and nods at the others. They break the necks of the victims bringing further screams of horror from the watching villagers. Then they throw the bodies into the stream.

As he turns to leave, Vaun says, 'I did not enjoy this, but your actions have broken our truce and must have consequences. Pray that we are too busy hunting this boy to visit you again.'

* * *

 

Fet's Place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

Eph and Zack sit in awkward silence on the living room sofa. There's a blanket and Eph's arms around his son. Eph keeps looking like he's about to say something and Zack is tense as if he's not sure whether he wants to hear it or not.

Eventually, Eph clears his throat, takes a deep breath and says in a low gentle tone, 'Your mother is already gone, Zack. You understand that right? Why I had to shoot that thing that looked like her?'

'I guess,' says Zack. 'I mean I know, I do really. It's just that...' he turns to face his father. 'I just want it all to be back the way it was, you know,' he says lowering his eyes. 'I don't want Mom to be a vampire. I don't want her to be dead or released or anything. I just want someone to wave a magic wand and turn back time and everything to be OK again - to be better. To be how it was even before you guys started fighting.' He finishes in a rush as if ashamed at the childish fairy tale he's pictured.

'I know Z,' says Eph. 'So do I, believe me. But  _this_  is our reality now and the kindest thing to do is kill the monster inhabiting Mom's body and let the Mom who loved you so much be at peace. Let her be the one you remember. Not this...this disease, this infection, this ...'

'Vampire,' suggests Zack.

'Well, yes buddy. Yes. She's a vampire,' says Eph. 'She -  _it_  drinks blood and has no will of its own. It does only what its unnatural drives desire and what its evil Master commands.'

'And if we kill this Master, like Mr Setrakian wants...' says Zack. 'What happens to Mom?'

'The evil inside of her dies and her soul will be at rest.'

'With Grandma? In heaven?' persists Zack.

Eph hesitates but says, 'Yes Z. In heaven.'

'Does that mean she's in hell now?' asks Zack looking worried.

'Of course not. The real Mom is just...waiting, kind of like being asleep,'  _ad libs_  Eph, quite convincingly.

'But she'll never come back to us how she was?'

'No. Your mother is dead. My wife is dead, Kelly is dead. I'm sorry...' Eph tails off weeping and this time it's Zack that embraces and comforts  _him_.

'I'm sorry buddy, I love her -  _loved_  her too,' Eph says through the tears. 'I miss her. I want your fantasy too. I don't think I can kill her myself. I can't, I don't...I just want her back. I want her back, Z.' Eph breaks down completely and buries his face in his son's chest, holding him tightly to him.

* * *

 

An alleyway, Long Island City, Queens

Gus and Vaun are leading Creem and his men on their inaugural hunt. It's quiet and the Nigerians are starting to get bored and chatty.

'You better hope some freaks show up soon, Mex,' says the poker winner, cranking up the machismo after his earlier swoon. 'Or we gonna start on your skinny ass.' His friends find this hilarious until Vaun turns and shooshes them, glaring and gesturing with his hand behind his ear.

'I don't hear nothing,' whispers Gus.

Vaun holds up a finger for silence and points at a building ahead. He sprints silently to the end of the alley and waits, head cocked like a listening dog. Then he beckons the others.

Gus gets there first and can hear screaming, growling and wet crunchy sounds coming from behind the wall. Vaun takes a short run up and shoulder charges the wall. The bricked in door behind it explodes into splinters. Gus and now Creem draw weapons and follow him inside. By the time their eyes adjust, Vaun has released the entire Gupta family and is continuing up the stairs.

'Holy shee-it!' exclaims the first Nigerian into the fray, gagging at the smell. Gus and Creem stand, looking shocked, their guns still trained on Angel, who is wearing his silver prop mask.

 _'Te conozco,_ ' says Gus, I know you. 'You're  _El angel de plata_. You're the actual goddamn Silver Angel, aren't you.' Laughing, he claps the dazed older man on the back and turns to Creem. 'We can't lose now, homey. We got a  _real_  superhero on our side.'

* * *

 

 

 


	8. I Won't Be The Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1989, Sandra’s krav maga tuition continues. Nora and Setrakian bond during their turn on watch and discuss love, loss and allies in the fight against the Master. In 1508, Paolo returns to Venice with his silver tablets.

* * *

Maastricht 1989

Back in the sports hall, Sandra and Corey are practising escaping from holds. There is a slightly cooler atmosphere after the revelations of the previous night.

'Come on,' she says, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. 'Attack me properly - like you want to hurt me, not like you're scared to touch me. A four-year-old could get out of that last hold.'

She stands there looking defiant for a second or two, then says, 'Right, I'm walking down the street,' she starts to strut down the hall like a pop star. 'Now, pretend...' she gasps as Corey holds her fast from behind, squeezing gradually to pin her arms tighter and tighter while still allowing her to breathe and talk.

'Happy now?' he asks, breathing harshly. 'What are you going to do here?' His breath is hot on her neck and his hair tickles her cheek. She shakes her head trying to use her ponytail in the same way but his upper hand comes up to grip her jaw and push her head tight into the crook of his neck immobilising it.

She stares at the hall's ceiling, every muscle in her body tense, as she tries to figure her way out.

Suddenly her upper body relaxes completely. She is still standing, bearing her own weight, so Corey knows she hasn't fainted. 'What are you doing?' he asks suspiciously.

'There's no point in struggling. I can't fight you. You're much bigger and stronger than me.'

'You can still move your legs. Use those.'

'Then you'll just throw me to the floor and I'll be in an even worse position,' she says mutinously. 'I will  _not_  squirm futilely in your arms. I won't be the helpless screaming victim. Not. Ever.'

She stands there unperturbed for a while. 'There's another way, I'm certain,' she says. 'Just give me a second.'

While Corey is laughing at this, he unwittingly relaxes the pinning a fraction. Sandra strokes up the inside of his thigh. Right up. Until...

He lets go and jumps back, a little shocked.

Sandra is standing in front of him, smirking. 'Attack. Over.'

His eyes darken and Sandra looks as if she's expecting a telling off. She gives a little squeak of surprise when he moves in close and kisses her.

She steadily pulls him even closer until she steps quickly back onto the mat and brings them both down, twisting at the last moment to be on top. She doesn't pull away though. Instead, she's so enthusiastic that, when she breaks for air, Corey smiles. 'That's the best throw down you've done all afternoon,' he says, 'but we have to move this elsewhere.'

'Oh. Why's that?' she breathes, nibbling his ear and undoing his flies.

Reluctantly, Corey manages to get her to pause. 'Because the Under-7 Ballet class starts here in ten minutes,' he says.

* * *

 

Maastricht 1989 Corey's apartment bedroom

The next morning he wakes and she's not beside him.

He can hear the shower running and goes to find her. Drawing aside the shower curtain, he gently takes the bottle of hair and body wash from her hand to examine it. It has "Unperfumed", "Pure" and "Uncoloured" emblazoned all over it. He sniffs it.

'Is this it?' he says, incredulous. 'Is this the smell that's been driving me insane ever since I met you?'

Sandra shrugs. 'I have very sensitive skin.'

'Mmm. I remember.' He kisses her shoulder and steps into the shower. She turns, smiling and puts her arms around him.

* * *

 

Fet's Place, Red Hook, Brooklyn

It's Nora's and Setrakian's turn on guard duty.

Nora brings Setrakian a steaming mug. 'I couldn't find any decaff,' she explains when he sniffs it. 'So I made you tea.'

He looks up a little disappointed. 'Your heart,' she explains and he nods grudgingly.

She sits opposite him and sips her own drink, studying him for a bit. 'Your wife believed didn't she?' she says eventually.

'Yes,' he sighs. 'There were a couple of other men who followed me in the early sixties but when they were taken, she was my sole companion in the fight.'

'When you had to kill her… you were left all alone weren't you?' says Nora.

Setrakian nods sadly. 'Is that how you feel?'

Nora nods.

'Dr Goodweather must do what you and I have done and that soon,' he says.

'He had a chance,' says Nora bitterly, 'at Kelly's house the other day. He had a clear shot at point blank range and he couldn't do it.'

'And that is the reason for the distance between you now?'

It isn't really a question but Nora nods. 'May I?' she asks waggling a cigarette in the air. Setrakian waves a permissive hand.

'Was there no one else since then?' she asks lighting up.

'There  _was_  another girl,' he says, 'many years ago. A lovely creature. Warm and empathic but fearless – to the point of stupid. And nosy.' He smiles at the memory. 'She always had to know things,' he continues. 'To hear people's stories.'

Nora is looking at him openly curious.

Setrakian shakes his head. 'No, nothing like that – it was not  _that_  many years ago. I was already an old man and she came to me with her fiancé. She seemed to believe but of course, it's hard to tell until you're faced with it. She disappeared one night soon after Eichhorst had been spotted in the area. He must have killed her rather than turning her, because she didn't return for her Loved One. But the uncertainty, the lack of closure was too much for the young man, especially as he didn't truly believe. He spent months searching for her. I had to return here…'

'For the heart in the jar?'

Setrakian shrugs and continues. 'He kept in touch at first but that gradually got less and less frequent. He thought I could have little to contribute to the search, I suppose. So sad, such a lovely couple…'

* * *

 

Venice 1508

A merchant ship sails into port and docks. It's raining heavily but the docks are still heaving with life. Paolo disembarks with his tablets wrapped in sacking and tucked under his arm. There's a glint of silver and two of his erstwhile shipmates exchange avaricious glances.

Paolo makes his way through the busy streets. Other dodgy-looking men eye him and the bundle speculatively throughout his wanderings.

He is seen sometimes chatting with cloth merchants who appear to know him, sometimes transacting with weaponsmiths or carpenters but for hours never resting or heading for home.

He seems to visit every conceivable trade within the market district, crossing and recrossing the canals and only when he notices the slowly darkening sky does he finally head for shelter.

He unlocks a boarded-up shop and trudges up two flights of stairs to an attic bedroom. Somewhere in his travels in the city, he has shed the tablets because he discards the empty sacking on the floor and collapses onto the bed with a sigh of relief.

He watches the spiders on the beams above him then a pale face comes into view and smiles gently.

 _'Buonasera_ ,' says Vaun, Good evening.

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
